


Epiphany Series

by thayln



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thayln/pseuds/thayln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't be asking questions you're not ready to hear the answers to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epiphany

                                                                               

_\--cover by Troyswann_

 

 

“I don’t get it, Hug.” Starsky’s drunk was at the philosophical stage, though not yet slurring. “Why’d John hafta . . . I mean . . . look, okay, look.” Starsky turned his barstool and engaged Huggy with a disarmingly open regard.  
Huggy crossed his arms and eyed Starsky warily.

“You like girls, Huggy.”

“Yeah.”

“And you like . . .”

“Guys.” Huggy spoke evenly, but his dark eyes flared in challenge.

“But why? I mean, if you like girls anyway, why would you choose, I mean . . . why would you ever prefer . . .”

“You want to know what the attraction is? Is that it?” Huggy shook his head. “Man, you have got to be the dumbest white boy it has ever been my sorry privilege to meet.”

“Come on, Hug. I’m just . . .”

“Curious? Curiosity killed the cat, my friend. Don’t be asking questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.” Huggy took a measured sip of his beer.

“I’m just trying to understand.”

Huggy gave him a hard stare for a moment and then rolled his eyes and reached for Starsky’s shoulders, spinning him around to face the dance floor. He scooted forward on his own stool till he was right behind Starsky, who was still swaying a little from the sharp turn. Huggy steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close.

“Okay, look at your partner out there dancing.” Huggy’s voice in his ear was quiet, creating a bubble of intimacy in the overcrowded club. “Look at those jive white boy moves.”

Starsky looked. Hutch did look a little awkward dancing, but no more so than usual. And he looked . . . good, relaxed for once. His dancing partner whispered something in his ear and Hutch laughed, teeth flashing white in the lights.

“Too bad he can’t dance like he fights.” Huggy’s voice was back, warm breath in Starsky’s ear. “Man. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him in action. Nothing quite like a righteous Hutchinson rage. And fast. You went down under that dude’s right hook and I never saw anyone move that fast.”

Starsky remembered. Some stupid bar fight. The guy had been very drunk and very large and had caught Starsky by surprise. He remembered blinking up at the ceiling and then turning his head to see Hutch coming over the pool table to get at the guy. It’d made him feel warm inside.

“He’s strong, too. He don’t look it so much, but he is. He ever use that strength against you, Starsky? Ever got down with you on a wrestling mat?”

Starsky flashed on a strangely sensual memory of hands grappling for purchase against the flex of muscle and tendon, of effort and the haphazard collision of body parts. Hutch’d looked down at him at one point during the struggle and flashed him a wolfish smile, eyes blazing with a kind of wild joy as he strained to complete the pin.

“Imagine that strength in bed, having a partner as strong as you are. Being able to push him against a wall and have him push back at you. Fight you. Pin you to the bed and swallow you whole.”

Starsky gasped softly, eyes locked on his partner.

“And then imagine that body, all that coiled strength and tension . . . surrendering to you, opening to you . . .”

Huggy waited a beat and then leaned back on his stool to snag his beer. He stood and leaned over, clapping a casual hand on Starsky’s frozen solid shoulder.

“Sorry my man, but you did ask for it.” And Huggy sauntered away.


	2. Apogee

The jazz club was a lump of cinderblock cradled in a wasteland of cars and weeds.

“Are you sure about this, Hutch?” Starsky cast a dubious glance over the blackened glass doors and the neon saxophone reclining above them.

Hutch finished paying the driver, and the cab took off before a startled Starsky could stop it. “What’s the matter, Starsk? Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, I trust y—” Starsky narrowed his eyes at Hutch who was threading his way to him through puddles of reflected neon.

Hutch sighed. “Starsky, would you please look around you? Would there be this many cars if the place was a dump? You know, I’m beginning to feel hurt. Did I not let you drag me through every diner in town during your search for the perfect pancakes last month?”

“Yeah, but see, ya gotta cook them in butter. They just don’t taste right . . .”

“Can we please go inside before this drizzle starts to take all the curl out of your naturally curly hair?”

“Yeah, all right.” Starsky reluctantly turned and followed his partner through the black doors. 

It was a lot nicer on the inside, very Hollywood Fifties glam, complete with cigarette girls and a Lana Turner wannabe for a hostess. Hutch threw him an amused glance as they followed her slinking form towards their table and Starsky felt his lips twitch in response. She led them down the steeply tiered levels and along the narrow walkway to their seats. Each level only had enough room for one row of tables. The tiers circled a tiny stage, dark for the moment.

Starsky tried not to fidget as they ordered drinks and got settled. He knew Huggy’d only been fucking with him last night, but he still felt strangely reticent around Hutch. He wasn’t really sure why.

“Jazz, huh?”

“Yeah!” Hutch wasn’t often excited about anything. Starsky thought it looked good on him.

“You’re gonna love this Starsk, trust me. This band is terrific!”

“Yeah, well . . . we’ll see.” Starsky hid a small grin behind a sip of beer and watched the lights change around them, darkening the audience seats and lighting up the stage. Then the band strolled on, casually took their places and began to fill the room with intricate sound, rich as whisky. 

Suddenly everything was different. The lights sparkled more brightly. The soft clink of cutlery played an accent to the bass. Whispers of shifting nylon and low-voiced negotiation charged even the small silences with sexual heat.

Starsky watched a stockinged toe slide slowly up a pinstriped leg at a table on the tier above them and nudged Hutch with his elbow. When his partner didn’t respond, Starsky turned to catch his attention. He saw Hutch’s face and something in him paused. 

Hutch was lost in an ecstasy of music and math, eyes closed, fingers twitching chord changes on the tablecloth. Starsky was caught by the way stage-lit shadows chased over his face. How they highlighted its planes, flickered and teased at the lips. Then the shadows moved again and Starsky followed them down, down to the darkness in the parted shirt collar, the faint glow of skin, the running pace of a frantic pulse.

Starsky jerked his eyes up. 

Hutch was looking straight at him, eyes filled with utter want, and Starsky gasped like he’d been doused in hot water. Then a wry glimmer shone briefly in Hutch’s face and those knowing eyes were looking in their turn, following the planes of Starsky’s body down as far as the table allowed. There they lingered, as if they could see the shadowed lines of what was swelling beneath. Starsky bit back a moan of bewildered lust and Hutch dragged his gaze away and shifted in his chair, breathing hard.

“Sorry, buddy. I . . .” Hutch snorted and shook his head. “First step’s a doozy, huh?” He reached for his glass and took a small sip. “Don’t worry, Starsk. It does get a little easier after awhile.” His tone was casual, but his eyes stayed hidden.

Starsky concentrated on catching his breath. God, it was true then. He heard Huggy’s rich laughter in his head. He wanted Hutch. And Hutch, God, Hutch wanted him. Wait a minute . . . “What do you mean it gets easier?” 

“I’ve . . .” Hutch cleared his throat, fiddled with his glass. “Thought about it before . . . a time or two.” 

“You . . .” Starsky squeaked, tried again, “You have?”

“Yeah.” Hutch shifted. “Look Starsk, it’s no big deal. Like I said, it gets easier to ignore after awhile.”

“Ignore?” Starsky wished Hutch would slow down so he could catch up. His brain seemed to be running in a different time zone or something.

“Ignore.”

“But . . .”

“No, Starsky.” Hutch did look at him then, clear command in his eyes. “Look, let’s at least finish this set, and then we’ll head downtown. See what we can turn up for the rest of the evening. What do you say?” He leaned towards Starsky a little, nudged him with his arm. “I heard Wendy was in town this weekend.” 

Starsky looked at him for a long moment. “Hutch, I . . .”

“What do you say?” Hutch’s voice was iron.

“Yeah, all right.” Starsky threw up his hands and slouched back in his chair, giving up. This wasn’t really the place to get into it, anyway, and besides, it was hard to argue a point when you weren’t even sure what your point was. He’d need to think on it. 

Starsky reached for his beer. Maybe it would help ease the ache in his gut.


	3. Perigee

Huggy’s storeroom was dark and sour with the scent of old beer. Starsky watched the muscles flex under Hutch’s damp T-shirt as he effortlessly stacked a case of beer on top of the pile they’d created. Hutch turned and flung him a quick grin through the dim light of the bare bulb swinging above them, and Starsky caught an echo of a younger Hutch, laughing easily and tossing hay bales around like they were nothing. His cock stirred. 

It’d been a month and he was no closer to getting Hutch to talk about the elephant languishing on the floor between them. That hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it, himself; hadn’t stopped the want 

Tonight had been one of the good nights, seemingly free from strain: a burger and a couple of beers, the ease of simple friendship. They’d traded jibes with Huggy, who’d grumbled about being short-handed and bitched about their tab. Starsky had been surprised when Hutch had suggested moving things around to make way for the next day’s beer shipment in return for the tab’s reduction, but he had followed agreeably enough. As they worked he began to understand. There was something very satisfying in the simple labor, seeing the immediate results of their shared effort. It was a nice change from the indefinite and often protracted labor of police work. 

Finally they were done, and Starsky followed as Hutch reached for the door. He stepped back into Starsky by accident as he pulled it open, and Starsky felt the full burn of Hutch’s warmth against him. Something in him broke.

He moved without thought, roughly pushing Hutch into the wall next to the door and pressing against his back. He buried his nose in the sweat-damp strands of hair curling against Hutch’s neck and inhaled his heat.

“What the . . . Starsk!”

“Please, Hutch?” Starsky’s voice was a harsh whisper. “Please? Just once? Wanna touch you so bad it hurts. It fucking hurts.” His arms banded around his tightly strung partner and pulled him closer, palms moving over his chest in helpless possession.

Hutch simply stood there, vibrating slightly, hands flat against the cinderblock.

“Just this once and I promise I’ll never ask again. I just . . . I gotta know, Hutch. I gotta.” Starsky’s voice cracked.

Hutch’s body wound itself even tighter but he didn’t try to move away. His forehead fell against the wall and Starsky felt his breathing change to harsh panting.

Starsky’s hands took their chance and dove for Hutch’s belt, fumbling with the clasp and nearly ripping the buttons off his 501 Blues. He delved both hands beneath the tight waistband of his briefs, fingers dragging over warm skin, and there was Hutch’s cock, hard and alive, twitching in his hands like a trapped thing.

Starsky had known it—known it would be this hot, this good to hold Hutch’s cock in his hand and coax it to greater hardness and length, this good to push his own cock against Hutch’s ass and rub. The cock in his hand jumped and he stroked it tight and rough, just like he’d known Hutch would want it, his other hand reaching lower to find the furred warmth below, cradling the heavy sac in his hungry palm. 

And just like that Hutch came. He made no sound but Starsky felt the shudder of it echo through his whole body, felt the power in the minute pulses, the wet splashes that filled his hand to overflowing. God, so good.

Starsky felt contentment seep through him as he wiped his hands on his jeans and carefully tucked Hutch back into his clothes. He wrapped his arms around the still-trembling body in front of him and rested his forehead between the bowed shoulders.

Then Hutch turned awkwardly in his arms and swung him around till his own back hit the wall, and all peace fled. Starsky blinked up at the burning countenance above him and knew he’d fucked up badly. 

Hutch dropped to his knees.

Starsky wanted to stop him, wanted to say sorry, to take it all back, but Hutch was already reaching for his belt, yanking it open and pulling the fabric down past his hips. Starsky’s cock bent downward painfully and sprang back hard as it was freed. He grunted at the pain, but Hutch just ignored him and gracelessly stuck his cock in his mouth. It was clumsy and rough and Hutch scraped him with his teeth. It was too desperate, too intense. And it was good, so good. God, it was the best he’d ever known. 

Starsky’s eyes were pinned to Hutch, staring in amazement at the man kneeling in a puddle of stale beer at his feet. At his partner and best friend, the generous mouth that soothed and tortured his cock. Hutch’s technique was improving fast, movement becoming slick and hot, tongue thrashing at the vein running along his length.

Starsky threw his head back, ignoring the pain as it hit the wall. His fingers scrabbled at the cinderblocks, tearing the skin of his fingertips, though he wouldn’t realize that till later. He closed his teeth tightly over the moans that tried to escape, not wanting anyone to hear, but then Hutch began to suck and Starsky didn’t care anymore. The entire precinct could have walked in and Starsky would have put on a show as long as Hutch didn’t stop.

But Hutch did stop. He’d tried to take it all and gagged, had to back off. He glared at Starsky’s cock like it was a recalcitrant perp for a moment and then moved forward to try again.

“Stop! Hutch, don’t. You don’t have to . . .” 

But it was already too late, Hutch had somehow managed to swallow him and the sensation set fire to Starsky’s whole body. He spurted again and again into the clutching throat, helplessly convulsing, feeling like his whole being was sucked out of him.

Finally it was done, and Starsky sagged against the wall, barely standing. It was all he could do to breathe and stare in bemusement as Hutch withdrew, working his jaw for a moment.

Then Hutch began to straighten him up, his care and outright tenderness such a contrast to the frantic, punishing sex that Starsky felt his eyes prickle.

“God! Hutch . . .” 

But Hutch only shook his head, still not looking at him.

“Starsk, I can’t.” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly stood. He reached for the door and then finally turned to look at Starsky, level eyes naked, refusing to hide anything. “This can never happen again.”

“Yeah, okay.” Starsky could only whisper.

Hutch turned away but his hand rose to clumsily pat Starsky’s shoulder. He bent over and absently wiped at his damp knees, then went out the door, stumbling a little down the step.

Starsky slid the rest of the way down the wall and buried his face in his hands.


	4. Memory

Hutch awoke tasting whisky and Starsky. He groaned and rolled off the couch, crouching for a moment on the floor, waiting for the headache and nausea to subside. He carefully stood and moved to the bathroom, kicking an empty fifth under the couch. It had been almost full last night. 

In the bathroom he looked down at the sink instead of the mirror. There wasn’t anyone there he wanted to see. He gazed blindly at his toothbrush for a long moment, tongue moving gently through his mouth, finding all the little pockets where Starsky lingered. He picked the brush up, deliberately applied a measured amount of paste and began to brush. He didn’t stop till his mouth was raw.

Hutch had barely finished dressing when Starsky turned up at his door like a stray uncertain of welcome. He bore a small offering of donut and coffee, and Hutch dug up a smile of thanks from somewhere, but he had no words to offer in return. He could only watch as the glimmer of hope in Starsky’s eyes faded to resignation. 

Outside, the bright sun tore at his eyes. He put on his sunglasses and thought longingly of the iron winter skies above Duluth as he eased into the Torino. Starsky’s door-slam made his head pound again and he reached for the glove compartment, looking for more aspirin. He swallowed two with a gulp of coffee, feeling Starsky’s eyes on him, though his partner didn’t say anything.

They drove past a couple of girls skating down the sidewalk and Hutch suddenly remembered learning to skate as a child. He’d loved the speed and sense of freedom, the physical illusion of coasting. At times it’d almost felt like he was standing still, feeling the rotation of the world beneath him. 

Was that happening now? Were he and Starsky stuck in one place while the world spun away under the Torino’s wheels? If they turned around could they move back in time? Or maybe they could spin sideways. Quit. Move somewhere quiet and green where people didn’t beat their kids and dogs or pass judgment on things they couldn’t understand. Was there anyplace they could go where they wouldn’t lose everything? 

The Torino stopped and Hutch looked up, confused for a moment before he recognized where they were. Starsky let out a breath, scrubbed his palms against his thighs and reached for the radio.

“Zebra 3 in position, Control. Please log us in at 1500.”

“Roger, Zebra 3.”

“Another day, another stakeout,” Starsky murmured, giving the sagging hotel across the street a dark look through his shades.

The words fell into Hutch’s silence, lay heavy in the place where fear and hunger churned. He’d gotten used to the ache of loving Starsky a long time ago. It was as much a part of him as the ache in his leg during wet weather, the phantom sting of needle pricks in his elbow. Old pain was useful. It helped a man remember he was alive; remember what he was fighting for and what he had to lose; the terrible price that anyone who loved him back would pay. He’d accepted it. He had—till last night’s shared madness had undone all his resolve. And now what the hell was he supposed to do? How could he ever keep Starsky safe? 

Starsky’s fists wrapped themselves tight around the steering wheel. There was a small bandage circling the tip of one finger. Hutch watched as the hands flexed and twisted, tension traveling up the forearms, cording the veins. He could feel Starsky’s pulse vibrate against the dust particles caught between them.

Starsky shifted in his seat. It creaked – made Hutch realize he was looking.

He turned away. The sun-baked metal of the doorsill burned. He left his arm there anyway and scanned the unforgiving afternoon, tongue absently suckling his soft palate, still searching for Starsky’s taste.


	5. Relativity

The gunshot rocked Hutch just enough that he stumbled backwards through a pothole. He fell back against the wall, shoulders hitting first, head bouncing off the brick. He heard another shot from somewhere as he slid down the wall and then everything went dark for a moment. When he opened his eyes again Starsky’s face was hovering over him, eyes all pupil with an old fear. 

_“I thought you were dead . . .”_

For a moment he wondered which Hutch he was. His eyes slowly scanned the dark alley. _No, there was glass. Last time, there was glass._

His eyes returned to his partner’s face and then fell, heavy under the weight of Starsky’s concern. 

“’Sokay. Vest caught it.” 

He felt Starsky’s fumbling search for surety, the slow drain of adrenaline as he found it. It hurt to breathe, the weight against his chest too familiar, and he drifted for a moment, remembering the scent of antiseptic and desperation. He took another breath. Starsky’s hand was in his hair. 

He opened his eyes and looked up, wondered which Starsky this was. The tiny lines around his partner’s eyes shocked him into the present, made his chest throb harder. He coughed and the lines of concern deepened. 

God, Starsky was getting older, would someday be old, then gone forever. It didn’t matter what Hutch did, what sacrifices he made. In the end he would still lose. 

His hand moved of its own volition, pulled Starsky close, bumping their foreheads together. He closed his eyes, took another breath. Starsky smelled like gunpowder and fear and he was so damn familiar and Hutch was so tired of hurting. 

He tilted his head, just a little, to feel the soft drag of Starsky’s lips against his, the stilling panic in his breath. Hutch pulled away, watching sudden wonder move across his partner’s face, the kindling glow in the coals of his eyes. Starsky started to move toward him again and Hutch watched as his own hand rose to stop him, brushed softly across the fear-bitten lips, dropped down to rest a moment over his heart. Hutch closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. It hurt. He took another breath.

He felt more than heard Starsky move away to direct the uniforms that had finally arrived. The sounds of their voices echoed strangely in his head, muffled and without meaning, like people talking outside the oxygen tent. Had he come unstuck in time like that guy in the Vonnegut story? Would he open his eyes to find himself back in that damned Italian restaurant, or on the roof watching Starsky’s last chance for survival disappear in a flash of gunfire? Or was this some fever dream and he was still sick with the plague?

He was suddenly afraid to open his eyes. Afraid that he’d only dreamed the last three weeks, dreamed of waking up to an exhausted Starsky smile, dreamed that kiss with Judith, right under the too-indulgent eyes of his partner. If he opened his eyes, what would he see: cubic nurses behind creased plastic sheets; shadow figures staring through the window, watching him die; the relentless, fluorescent glare of artificial day?

_No. It’s dark. We’re in the dark._

“Starsk?”

“Right here, Hutch.” Starsky’s hand found his wrist, circled it.

“Alley?”

“Yeah,” Starsky tightened his hold. “Still in the alley. Hang on. Paramedics are coming.”

Hutch’s eyes snapped open. “No hospital.”

“Hutch you’ve probably got a concussion, at least . . .”

“No.”

“Hutch . . .”

“No Starsky. I’m not going back to the damned hospital. I’ll be fine.” Hutch started to get up. Shouldn’t have been lying around while there was work to do, anyway.

“Hutch . . .” Starsky wouldn’t let him up.

“I mean it, Starsky. Now let me up.”

“Hutch, would you shut the hell up and sit still for a damned minute!” Starsky took a deep breath and scrubbed his hands across his face. 

“Okay, look. Let the paramedics take a look at you, at least. Then we’ll decide.”

“Starsk, please. I really don’t want to go back there. I just got out, for Christ’s sake.”

“Exactly. You just got out. Dammit, Hutch!” Starsky pulled at his own hair. “You’ve only been back on the street for what, two whole days after almost fucking dying on me? And then you just had to be the one to call this turkey out? What the fuck are you doing? It’s like you’re trying to make sure you go first or something.”

“Hey! You flipped the coin, partner. And I was wearing a vest, wasn’t I? And it wasn’t my fault I got sick, either. How the hell was I supposed to know Jake had the fucking plague?”

Starsky just looked at him.

Hutch looked down and realized his hand was still wrapped around his gun. He blinked at it for a moment. It seemed heavier than usual when he finally lifted it. He put it in its holster. It was hard to let go. His left hand worked on rubbing the stiffness out of his right. 

“This thing with us. It’s already too late. Isn’t it?” He didn’t look up.

“Yup.”

“No way to go back now.”

“Nope.”

Hutch sighed. “And all this fighting I’ve been doing is just completely useless, isn’t it.”

“Pretty much.”

“The problem is . . .” Something caught in Hutch’s chest and he took another careful breath. “The problem is you actually see me.”

He dared to look up and Starsky was right there. Just as he always was, unflinching honesty looking back at him. 

“Yeah, Hutch. I see you.” 

“And you’re still here.”

“Yup.”

“You’re a damned fool.”

“Maybe.” Starsky put his own gun away. “Still not going anywhere.” 

Suddenly, there were more sirens and controlled, frantic movements. There were strange hands on him and small bright lights shining in his eyes. He closed them.

“I mean it, Starsk. No hospital.”

Starsky’s hand was resting on his shoulder. “We’ll see, partner. We’ll see.”


	6. Gravity

1:00 a.m.

Starsky slouched against the entry into Hutch’s bedroom and surveyed his partner. Hutch was asleep, a shadowed question mark of rumpled sheets and restless, dreaming eyes. 

They’d gone to the hospital after all. Dobey’s barked command had shut up Hutch’s complaints and he’d submitted sulkily to the exam and x-rays, but refused the overnight stay. Bruised ribs and a mild concussion were things they had dealt with before, and Starsky had agreed to watch him at home. He’d been rewarded with a smile of gratitude as Hutch had all but run from the emergency room to the safety of the Torino—but once home Hutch had gone opaque. He’d showered and crawled into bed without a word.

Starsky’s watch beeped and he gave up on deciphering his partner for the moment. Straightening, he padded across the moonlight-spattered floor and tilted the shade of the bedside lamp a little before clicking it on. He sat on the edge of the bed and touched Hutch’s shoulder. 

“Hutch? Need ya to wake up, partner.”

“Uhg . . .”

Starsky tightened his grip, shook the shoulder a little. “Come on, Hutch. Let me see those big, beautiful eyes.” 

Hutch showed him something else—namely, a sleepily raised middle finger.

“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny.” Starsky’s breath caught at Hutch’s answering grin, but then Hutch woke all the way up. 

“Yeah?” His voiced cracked with uncertainty and Starsky watched his gun-hand clench. He gentled the tense shoulder. 

“It’s okay, Blintz. Just time for your head check. Gotta make sure none of that soft cheese is leakin’ out your ears.”

Hutch’s body eased a little. “Yeah . . . okay.” 

“Can you tell me your name?” 

“Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.” 

Starsky looked closely at his pupils. “What’s today’s date?”

“August 9, 1977.”

“Who’s the President?”

“Jimmy Carter.”

Starsky felt his own tension ease.

“Okay, now for the hard part.” Starsky’s eyebrows waggled a little and he assumed a horrible British accent. “What’s your name? What’s your quest? And what’s your favorite color?”

Hutch rolled his eyes, “Arthur. Grail. Off-yellow. Can I go back to sleep now?”

Starsky chuckled softly. “Yeah, okay. See ya in an hour, partner.”

Hutch grimaced and searched for a comfortable position. He finally settled and blinked slowly up at Starsky a couple of times before letting his eyes fall shut completely. Starsky squeezed his shoulder before easing away. Hutch’s breathing deepened.

Starsky clicked off the light and backed off the bed. He scooted across the floor to sit against the wall by the window, wedging himself in between the leaning stacks of canvas, just another thing that Hutch had left unfinished. He raised his knees and crossed his arms atop them, noting the slight buzz of adrenaline still left in his fingertips. He took a deep breath, propped his chin on his arms and sat for a long time, watching fingers of moonlight move over Hutch’s face. 

2:00 a.m.

“Come on, time to wake up again, buddy.”

“Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, Ken. Call sign Zebra 3. Badge number 12. Now go away and lemme sleep.”

“I ever tell you you wake up mean?” Starsky poked Hutch in the side. “Come on, Hutch, roll over so I can check your pupils.”

Hutch couldn’t stop a groan of pain as he lurched over. His head throbbed sickeningly, and the dim light glared through his eyelids. Starsky’s hands brushed across his forehead, blocking the light. They were warm, slightly sweaty. Hutch wanted them to touch him some more. 

“Headache came back?” Starsky kept his voice low. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Hutch. It’s okay. Just let me check your pupils real quick, and I’ll turn the light back off and get you a couple Tylenol. I promise.”

“All right.” Hutch gritted his teeth and endured the quick exam and its required questions, but couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief when the lamp went off.

He lay as still as possible and waited for the pain to ebb as Starsky moved into the other room to get water and pills. He let Starsky help him lift his head up enough to take the medicine, his palm warm against the lump of pain. The water was cool and soothing and he finished it all. Starsky smiled with satisfaction. 

Something in his smile made Hutch’s insides twist and he had to suppress a strong urge to pull him down into the bed. It wasn’t even really sexual. He just wanted to lie beside Starsky, feel his warmth, fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. 

And Starsky would do it, too. All Hutch had to do was reach out, and Starsky would crawl into bed with him, let him sleep in his arms. He’d sleep till the pain went away, and then wake to Starsky’s morning breath and his beard stubble and his smile and his touch. And God help him, he wanted it, all of it. He wanted it so badly that his muscles twitched, fighting him. His eyes dropped. 

“Thanks.” His voice sounded weak in his own ears.

“Anytime, partner.”

Starsky eased his hand from under Hutch’s head, patted his shoulder and left. He moved into the other room and Hutch tracked him by the small sounds he made: the tink of glass in the sink; the sound of water being poured from a kettle; the rhythmic clinking of metal against porcelain, probably instant coffee; the crinkle of a bag of chips. The couch sighed when Starsky finally settled and the low voice of the TV rose, along with blue flickering shadows. The sound was too low for him to pick out words, but the music was foreboding and slightly cheesy, and Hutch figured it was a creature-feature. He watched the blue light make shapes behind his eyelids and thought about why a man who faced real monsters on an almost daily basis would choose such fare.

3:00 a.m.

“Do you really think I have some kind of death wish?” Hutch’s words drifted like smoke through the darkened room, stopping Starsky at the entry. He slumped against the corner, rubbed at his eyes. 

“Can’t sleep, huh?”

“What? No. Doesn’t matter. Answer the question.”

Starsky looked at the floor and shrugged, desperately wanting Hutch to leave it alone. 

“I was . . . scared, pissed. It was just too soon, after . . . well, you know.” Don’t be asking questions you don’t want the answers to.

“Oh.” 

Something in Hutch’s tone niggled at Starsky; too much surprise, perhaps. As if some deep part of his partner was always shocked to find out that someone actually cared about him. It was starting to piss Starsky off.

Hutch moved a little in the dark, shoved the pillow up higher and leaned back against it. He turned the lamp on and scooted his legs over enough for Starsky to sit. Starsky took the invitation without thought. 

“How’s the headache? Better?”

“Yeah, a little. It’s okay, Starsky.”

“Is it?”

Hutch’s forehead creased. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” Starsky shook his head. “I just hope you like that flak vest, cause you’re gonna have to wear it every day from now on.”

Hutch chuckled and looked at him. The chuckle choked off. “Wait a minute! You don’t mean . . . you’re serious?” 

Starsky just looked at him. 

“Aw, Starsk. Come on. You know I hate those things. They weigh a ton. How the hell do you expect me to chase down a perp wearing a sack of lead? Besides,” he tried wheedling, “I don’t need it. I got you to back me up. Best protection a guy can have. I trust you, partner.”

Starsky stiffened and then dropped his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“You say you trust me. I’m the only damn one you do trust. I mean,” he straightened up and his hands waggled, “you kinda trust Huggy and Dobey, but only to a certain point. You kinda trust yourself, but only to a certain point. And as for your family . . . we don’t need to talk about them, do we?”

Hutch winced. “I’d rather not.”

“Right. So that just leaves me, the only guy that you can trust. And yet, I just let you get shot.”

“What?”

For some reason the blank shock on Hutch’s face made him mad, made him want to rub his face in it.

“You got shot, Hutch.”

“B-but I was wearing a vest. Everything’s fine.” 

“Everything is not fine. You were fucking shot. Again.” His voice cracked and he turned away.

“It’s a good thing you were wearing that vest, Hutch, because I wasn’t fast enough. I let you down. I just couldn’t get there in time. And it’s not the first time this has happened. And you’ve only been out of the damned hospital a couple of weeks . . .” 

“Hey. I was cleared for duty, and we flipped, remember?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t have to flip, Hutch. You could have just let me go just this once. You could have really trusted me and let me go. You didn’t have to be the one to face that creep. But no. Had to prove you’re the baddest cop around, that your life means so little you can just throw it away any time you want. ’Cause after all, nobody’s gonna really miss poor ol’ you. So it doesn’t really matter if you get killed as long as you can go down in some kind of grand self-sacrifice.”

Starsky jerked up and turned to the end of the bed, pacing in the small space. He felt the rage rising like a storm front, powerful, cleansing. He couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want to stop it

“Jesus, Hutch! Do you have any idea how hard that is for me? Yeah, I see you. I see right into that thick skull. You’re so caught up in your own damned head, so sure that you’re cursed or something. Which is a pretty fucking arrogant presumption, by the way. I mean, to fuck you is to die?” 

“Now, wait just a damned minute!” Hutch started to sputter, but Starsky wouldn’t stop. He turned at the end of the bed and paced in a little circle, spitting words over his shoulder. 

“So okay, I got it, us sleeping together is dangerous on a lot of levels and you don’t want to risk that. I got it. And it was damned hard, but it was getting good again, finally. We were good again.” 

“Starsk, please . . .”

“And then you almost died of the fucking plague, of all things. And I had to think about it. About what it was gonna be like without you and what I was gonna regret. And then you didn’t die, but you turned around and got shot again.” He turned and faced the bed, unseeing, fists clenching in unconscious rhythm. “I still dream about it, sometimes, coming around the corner on the bike and seeing that bastard with a rifle on you.” The older memory faded into the newer one and he was mad all over again.

“Where the hell do you get off, thinkin’ you’re the only one with something to lose? I’ve lost people, too, dammit. I lost my father! I lost Terry. And I’m gonna lose you. I feel like I’ve already lost you, like I’m still standing outside the window in that damned hospital and I can’t . . . I can’t touch you, Hutch.”

Starsky found himself at the end of the bed, looking down at his partner’s feet. Hutch always pulled the sheet out from the bottom of the bed. Starsky wondered if it was cooler sleeping that way. The room wavered. He looked up. Hutch was sitting up. The sheet had dropped to his waist, revealing the deep coin-sized bruise that was starting to spread into the surrounding tissue, and Starsky’s eyes lingered there, anchoring himself to the present before slowly sliding up to Hutch’s face.

“And I wanna touch you, Hutch. All the time. All the damned time.” The words made his throat hurt.

Hutch’s eyes closed. “Yeah. Me, too.” It was a thin whisper of sound.

“Then, why . . .”

“Because there’s a difference between want and need.” Hutch’s voice was stronger, now, but he still couldn’t look up. “I . . . I want you, Starsk. Don’t think I don’t. I want you more than you’ll ever know. But, I need you to be my partner, and I’ll do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep that partnership intact.” He did look up then, and Starsky almost flinched at the naked fear in his eyes.

“Hutch you’re the best damned cop I know. The way you put evidence together, how you think . . . I don’t know anyone better.” Hutch’s fear became astonishment and Starsky’s lips twitched. “Well, almost anyone.”

“Ah.”

“The problem is you’re too close to this case. You’ve made a conclusion without having all the evidence, partner.”

“What evidence?”

“Us. Being together. Hopefully years of it. Everything we’ve already survived. When you’re a hundred and forty-eight, which are you going to regret more, that we took the chance or that we didn’t?”

“God, I don’t know.” Hutch pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. 

Starsky finally calmed a little, took a deep breath. He crawled up the bed and sat beside Hutch, close but not touching, deliberately relaxing against the headboard.

“Relationships change, Hutch.” He said it carefully, gently.

“I know.”

“Change doesn’t have to mean loss.”

“I know.”

“You’re not a coward, Hutch.” 

Hutch sighed and let his hands flop down on the bed. “Yeah, yeah. ‘The only thing we have to fear . . .’” 

Starsky turned a little toward Hutch. “Actually, I prefer, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost . . .’” 

Hutch looked at him in surprise, and Starsky watched the struggle in his eyes. Finally he shrugged and scooted down to lay flat on his back. “‘Once more, into the breech?’”

Starsky felt a grin begin to stretch his face as he turned fully on his side and propped his head on his hand. “‘Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!’” 

“‘The early bird catches the worm?’” Hutch had said it without thinking, just trying to keep up, and Starsky watched in delight as a blush spread from his face down his neck and into his chest when he realized what he’d said.

“I can do that.”

“What?”

“Get up early.”

Hutch made a derisive sound. “Since when?”

“Hey!” Starsky smacked him on the arm. “I can. If it’s worth it.”

Hutch looked away. “How can you be so sure it would be?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? That has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Hutch wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey. Partner.”

Hutch reluctantly turned his head, and Starsky caught his eyes, held them with his own. 

“It’d be worth everything.”

Something happened in Hutch’s eyes, then. They seemed to gather all the light in the room and fracture it into a kaleidoscope of fear and longing and trust and affection and something else that Starsky couldn’t put a name to. 

He was suddenly aware of his hand still resting on Hutch’s arm. He watched in fascination as it seemed to move of its own volition, sliding up and across Hutch’s shoulder. It hovered, not quite touching the bruised flesh, feeling the heat radiating. The hand moved higher, and a single fingertip traced a clavicle, dipped into the shadowed hollow. God, Hutch’s skin was so soft there. His hand moved higher, noting the change in texture, soft skin under prickles of hair, the lump of Hutch’s Adam’s apple fitting into his palm. Hutch swallowed and Starsky felt the movement of it. His thumb lay against the artery, feeling its beat—Hutch’s life running fragile beneath a thin layer of skin. He always radiated strength, sometimes to the point of stubborn immobility, yet here was this vulnerable spot bared beneath Starsky’s hand. All Starsky had to do was press hard just there and Hutch’s life would end, yet Hutch lay quiet under his touch, accepting, trusting. Could Hutch really trust him that much, bare body and soul before him, let him in? 

The reality of where all this was going, just exactly what he was asking of his partner shivered through him; stopped him. Starsky’s eyes crept back up Hutch’s face, to his eyes, where black pupils crowded back the blue, and reflected his own uncertainty. And then Hutch did the most amazing thing. 

He closed his eyes and relaxed his mouth.

And Starsky fell. 

Hutch’s lips were a little chapped but plush underneath. Starsky let his own lips drift across them, barely touching, feeling the arousal build like static. Hutch made a small sound and Starsky grew more daring, pressing them closer. His right hand stole under Hutch’s neck, fingers toying with a soft ear lobe. He turned Hutch a little more toward him and ran his tongue along the tips of Hutch’s teeth, sampling their texture, comparing it to the softness of the inside of his lips. The pulse captured within his hands began to race, and he finally dipped his tongue fully into the heat of Hutch’s mouth. He groaned at the pleasure and slid in and out, inviting Hutch’s tongue to play.

Hutch moaned and his tongue pushed forward, tangling with Starsky’s till he couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore. His cock jumped against his fly like a puppy begging to be let out, and he pulled back a little, gasping for breath. Hutch grumbled a complaint and tried to follow, wincing at the sudden movement.

“Easy, babe. “ Starsky eased him back down as he tried to catch his breath. 

Hutch glared up at him. “I’m not broken, Starsk.”

“No, just cracked.” Starsky sighed. “Hutch, you have a probable concussion and definite bruised ribs and we’re going to play this my way or no way.” 

Hutch looked up at him, still panting slightly, till something finally let go in his eyes and he went quiescent in Starsky’s hold, relaxing against the pillow. “Okay.”

Starsky felt liquid heat rush through him, and he raked his eyes from the faint glint of sweat on Hutch’s forehead to the trust-filled eyes and the kiss-bruised mouth. His gaze fell on the length of throat he’d encircled and he had a vision of it straining back in soul-wracking pleasure, tendons tight, while he licked the salt from it and planted his cock so deeply inside Hutch that he’d never be able to question their connection again, never count his life as cheap, never doubt that he was loved.

Starsky felt the breath sobbing out of him as his eyes lowered, locking on the length of Hutch’s arousal, still swaddled in cotton. He tugged the sheet away and Hutch’s cock rose and filled even more under the heat in his eyes, the tip becoming milky with need. 

Starsky groaned and moved down the bed, planting himself between Hutch’s spreading legs, wrapping his hand around the hard column of flesh. Hutch gasped. 

Starsky moved his hand, keeping the rhythm slow and steady, and ducked his head to breathe in Hutch’s scent. He felt his own cock surge again, and reached his other hand down to unzip his cutoffs, giving himself some relief. Then he bent his head and laid his lips against the crinkly skin of Hutch’s balls. He bathed them with his breath and Hutch sighed. He touched them with the tip of his tongue, tracing wordless patterns, prodding a little at the hard lumps under the skin until Hutch moaned. 

Starsky peered up through a blond haze of fuzz across the expanse of heaving chest and tight nipples to catch Hutch’s eyes. He was still moaning softly at the sure movements of Starsky’s hand and the look in his eyes was wild and a little lost. Starsky held those eyes as he moved his head up and finally tasted the tip of Hutch’s cock. He let the slick fluid float across his tongue, watching Hutch’s eyes widen even more before they slammed closed. Starsky swirled his tongue around the tip, dipped it into the little cleft where the head met the shaft to feel the blood rushing there. His own cock throbbed in time and he moaned against the slick skin, moved his mouth lower and began to suck. He didn’t try to take it all, just let his mouth cover what it could while his hand moved below, thumb rubbing little circles over the main vein. 

Hutch cried out and Starsky felt the heavy warmth of his legs wrap over him, felt Hutch’s shaking hands tugging at his hair. It was like an earthquake, the rumbles of movement growing till finally the body under him exploded. Starsky shoved one hand down to clench around his own cock as he swallowed the strange tasting fluid. It was slightly acrid and a little salty and something else that made him think of rain on freshly turned earth. It tasted like life, Hutch’s life, within him. Starsky’s body quaked with completion at the thought.

Finally he withdrew and let his head drop against Hutch’s thigh. 

“God, oh God, oh God.”

“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was ragged, but a kind of peace stole through it. Starsky smiled and kissed the damp skin beneath his head. 

They lay tangled for a while, catching their breath, till Starsky finally shifted and Hutch moved his legs so Starsky could get up. He shoved his cutoffs the rest of the way off and wiped them over the sheet before tossing them on the floor. Crawling back up the bed, he collapsed next to Hutch, blearily setting his watch alarm to go off in an hour. Hutch reached over to turn off the light It was too hot to cuddle, but their hands brushed together, then clasped as their breath finally slowed. Starsky had almost drifted into sleep when Hutch’s voice floated toward him through the dark.

“If I have to wear a damn flak vest everyday, then so do you.”

Starsky chuckled. “We’ll see, partner. We’ll see.”

Somewhere across town, a lanky black man smiled in his sleep and rolled over to drape a possessive arm around the warm body sharing his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the Blood and Destiny zine.
> 
> Many thousands of thanks to my editor, Kass.
> 
> Gorgeous cover art by Troyswann
> 
> Works inspired by this one: Podfic by Hardboiledbaby - http://archiveofourown.org/works/394815


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